Reflections in Amethyst
by Sara Darkotter
Summary: Scorpius and Lily's daughter reflects upon her parents, and how little she knows about them.


Just a one-shot, something done in my spare time-trying to write a younger child. Tis so HARD!

* * *

My parents are both aurors.

It's a great job where they save lives and help others and find dangerous people.

It's a job where they're gone for days or weeks or months at a time-office, on the streets, in the fields. My childhood is full of whispered midnight lies and sad smiles and hoping that they come home in one piece before I even understood what those words meant. It's the childhood of my mother-only I don't have two older brothers and a mama to run to. I have grandparents and cousins and uncles and aunts, but it's not the same thing. There's always that slight distance, that tiny space caused by your not-quite-the-same genes, that you can never cross.

I've done my best though, grown up with them in houses that weren't the one my parents owned. I know my way better around Malfoy Manor than my home.

Is it my home?

I'm ten, and I've had less than five years worth of time spent in my Mum and Da's company. I added it up myself. Then had Grandfather Draco check it twice.

He cried. I pretended not to see.

My home is a vast dark mansion in Wiltshire and an odd-job, put-together, added-on place in Ottery St. Catchpole. It's a blend-in muggle-style home in Godric's Hollow, a place built out in the middle of nowhere, the rooms above a store in Diagon Alley. It's the halls of the Ministry and the many secrets they hide, trying to catch stray notes as they fly overhead.

It's the fallen-off-the-hook-again coat of a visiting half-giant, investigating the many things hiding in its pockets.

But not a small house tucked into the county of Surrey because it's near London and my parent's work.

Honestly, no one really lives there.

I spend some weeks with my Grandfather Draco and Grandmother Astoria, where formal language lives on my tongue and I tuck myself into neat dresses as I walk hallways filled with paintings and silence and too much room, and if my grandparents have to go somewhere, I follow, because Great-Grandfather is under permanent house arrest, and legally I can't be left alone with him. And Great-Grandmother Narcissa locks herself up again.

I spend others with Grandpa Harry and Gran Ginny, many cousins and uncles and aunts, where I have jeans that wear out too quickly and shout and run around homes and homes and homes, tag games and pranks and life, sunshine in everyone's eyes. Photos cover the walls there, straying to the ceiling as room disappears. I stare at these photos and wonder at marvelous change.

And then come those times when Mum and Da are home, with their scars and unspoken words and always that small gift for me, and we spend some weeks together-catching up, laughing with smiles that reach nowhere, my father takes me running with the dog they take on missions, my mother teaches me spells. I know auror techniques and training and I can run fast.

But sometimes we feel like strangers. People who will never be able to know each other, separated by other lives. I remember my father staring from the doorway as I pretended to sleep, eyes narrowed in thought like I was a clue that didn't match up in a case, that wildcard he needed to either fit into place-or toss.

I remember my mother, waking suddenly as I walk by, a wand at my throat as I wait in fear. Was I friend-or foe? Who was this stranger wearing a child's form? I've nearly died, heard half-curses, the words lodge in her throat. She wouldn't seem to realize, I would pretend not to notice, and I'd cry silent in the night, scared of the people who created my flesh and blood. There's much love between them, but I don't think much of it is for me.

One day soon, I want them to give up being aurors. They could have done that years ago. Even if auror work didn't pay so handsomely, Grandfather has his company for Dad, people would scramble to hire Mum.

And I need them. I need these strangers to become the people I call them and I need them to not become the nightmares that plague all aurors' children, when they realize that things can happen to their parents. I see my father laid open, organs on display, I wake from my mother, blood dripping from fatal wounds onto the grounds. Cruel laughter and taunting enemies. I don't want my parents to become only names written in black stone. I need them.

I want to know them. I want to know stories from their perspective, I want to know their personalities, I want to know why they married and why they chose my name.

They called me Amethyst. Amethyst Eos Malfoy. I still don't know why. Was I not worthwhile enough to name me after a star like any other Black descendant? Or is there more to my name I don't know, since they're not around enough to shout my name after me as I do something wrong?

I am a Weasley, a Potter and a Malfoy all at once and my body can't decide which it should be most like. White-blond hair but it shines fire. Grey eyes, but a rim of amethyst, like my mother and blue-and-orange eyes. Lanky tall frame and unbrushable hair I run my piano fingers through too often. I am a strange person, not quite natural, with too many conflicting views to tell who she's even supposed to start out as.

And nowhere to start.

My parents come home tonight. My birthday was last week and their last letter promised to have been home by then. I'm at the Manor, I don't want to go, no matter how dark this place may look outside, because here is home and they are not.

And at this rate, I doubt they ever will.

Amethyst set down her quill, looking at what she had spilled over the page. She was ten, but more mature child than many her age.

And right now she could hear steps far below, ones that just matched up in her memory with her father. He would talk with Grandfather and Grandmother, maybe Great-Grandfather Lucius and Narcissa. Mum might be anywhere.

Amethyst shoved the papers to the side, picking up one of those childish stories she put great effort into penning just for this purpose. It took a lot to write like she didn't understand anything about the world, it filled many hours.

She dipped her quill, tapped it against her cheek, and scribed a few words before laying her head on her arms, slowing her breathing like she had fallen asleep at this task.

Footsteps echoing loudly, then contained by her room, and strong arms taking the quill from her to take her away from the desk.

Scorpius looked across his daughter's desk at the scattered parchment, laying her down on her bed before coming back to look.

One caught his eye, and he read her rambling poetic words, feeling sick as each one met his sight, punching him in the gut. He carefully sat down in the available chair as he read the last sentence, hating himself.

He called himself a father. A FATHER! When here was the truth...

A quiet, nightmare induced whimper, Amethyst had fallen asleep. Scorpius stood. He had to start making up for his mistakes somewhere...

He stroked her forehead, watching her settle uneasily.

"You used to call yourself Amerys... Merlin knows how that's easier to pronounce..."

* * *

What she meant by mum might be anywhere was that she didn't know her mother well enough to know where or what she might be doing.

Please do review... if anyone wants me to continue this, you're going to have to offer prompts though.


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